Emotional Refuge
by JuliaKerns5
Summary: WARNING: Slash House/Wilson OneShot Spoilers for 'Not Cancer! In every single marriage, Wilson looks for emotional refuge in House. Every time, it turns into something bigger than it should. But when Wilson is resigning, House looks for refuge in him.


_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

"_Wilson moving into House's apartment during _Sex Kills_ after a failed marriage symbolizes his taking emotional refuge in his friend." _– Producer Katie Jacobs

"_She's smart. She knows if she buys me enough alcohol my defenses just might be weakened."_ – Wilson in episode _Forever_ in House M.D.

There's a soft, dejected knock on the door that interrupts House from his light snoozing on the couch. The white background noise of the TV is suddenly no longer just soft sound but rather a disrupting racket as House wakes up with a jolt.

He stumbles to the door, cane limply at his side. As the other side of the threshold is revealed, House frowns slightly to see Wilson standing bleakly, his shoulders slumped and his eyes sunken with despondence. House spies a tattered suitcase by Wilson's heel and raises his eyebrows curiously.

"She kicked me out of the house."

_She_ has become the code word for Wilson's wife in the past few weeks. Both Wilson and House don't need to even say her name.

"So you expect me to give you charity and house you here overnight?" House asks skeptically.

"It's not charity, House, I just want to sleep on your couch." Wilson says with a tired sigh, rubbing at his hairline. With the dark rings around his eyes and his deplorable posture he looks well beyond his age.

"Fine," House agrees reluctantly, "but if you so much as drool on my cushions you are out of here."

Wilson rolls his eyes, grasping the handle of his bag as he drags it into the apartment and takes off his coat. "Have any beers?" he questions exhaustingly, rubbing at his temples.

House shrugs a yes and hobbles over to the fridge as he seizes out two chilled beer bottles and tosses one to Wilson, who catches it deftly in the crook of his arm.

"Just so you know," the older doctor says with a stern glance to Wilson, "this isn't therapy session. I don't want to hear about your problems at home with your wife."

Wilson only has a flash of disappointment before he nestles himself into the edge of the couch. "Fine." They both uncork their bottles and even though Wilson is still keen on talking, whether it's about his situation at home or not, House's eyes are glued to the TV. He determinedly turns up the volume and avoids his friend's gaze.

In two hours time, the sky turns from blue to black, House and Wilson down four bottles of beer each, Wilson a half more, and a hundred and twenty minutes of cheesy movie is watched.

House needs two dozen beers to become fully inebriated. Wilson only needs two beers. But House can't even tell if Wilson _is_ drunk because he hasn't said one word in one hour.

Finally, when the credits roll to the end of some suspenseful movie, Wilson sniffs quietly.

"Are you crying at an action movie?" House asks him incredulously, flicking through the channels leisurely.

"Don't be stupid, House," Wilson accuses, the stink of intoxication radiating off of his words. The smell of alcohol is sharply staining the crisp night air. "I think my marriage is ending."

The therapy session has begun.

There is a very prominent reason as to why House would not do well as a therapist. Therapists are supposed to listen in silence and occasionally pipe up with comforting and often dishonest statements simply to ease the patient's unhappiness. They would even lie just to get the patient smiling. House is the exact opposite.

He believes in brutal honesty and being impolite, so impolite that it sometimes even borders on cruel. But that's the way that House operates. And he knows that Wilson is not looking for the hurtful and aggressive truth. Wilson bruises like a peach emotionally, and especially when he's intoxicated.

"Uh…" House mumbles uncomfortably, rubbing at the stubble perched on his chin. "Can we just sit silently and enjoy the credits?"

Wilson pouts, sighing into his lap as he hugs a pillow to his chest. "Seriously, House, we just keep on having fights, and people in happy marriages don't have fights…"

"There is no such thing as a happy marriage," House tells him bitterly, attempting to dose up the volume on the TV. Suddenly the dramatic credit's music is filling the whole apartment. "This is why there are never sequels to romantic movies. Happy ever after never lasts."

"There's a big difference to sleeping on the couch and getting kicked out for the night, House… and it just keeps on happening more and more…" he lets out a depressed sigh, fondling with the hem of the pillow.

"Marriage is for people who want to see their relationships fail."

Wilson looks at him out of the corner of his eye, frowning slightly, "You don't really believe that, do you?"

"You're the one who's telling me that your marriage is failing," House says defensively, gulping down another swig of beer, "the divorce statistics are through the roof."

Wilson tilts his head as though he's pondering the diagnostician's statement. He bites his lower lip worriedly, "It's just… when I was younger I always thought I would find the right person… and I would still be young. And she would be pretty. And we would understand each other."

House huffs at his friend skeptically, "The world is too delicate to handle things like people who understand each other," he brushes off firmly, "how young and stupid were you when you had this little wish of yours?"

Wilson frowns at his beer bottle, drunkenly twirling it around in a circle, "I dunno," he murmurs quietly, his words slurring themselves together, "I guess I just thought I'd never be one of those people that got divorced."

The older man scowls down at his television remote, fruitlessly punching at the volume button. It gets no louder. The histrionic Mozart music is louder than a blender whirring at high speed, but it still doesn't stop Wilson from mumbling on.

"All right, can we please have this conversation when you're not drunk?" House says, a little irritated by the length and whining in this discussion.

"I'm not drunk!" Wilson's voice has a thick aura of drunken indignance around it as he furrows his eyebrows together, clearly upset.

House doesn't even bother to give his friend an apologetic glance, his eyes firmly plastered onto the TV.

But he's a little peeved, however, as he feels Wilson's eyes stuck on his head. And his gaze doesn't move. House edgily shifts his eyes over for a moment to glare at the oncologist, but Wilson doesn't get the message. And without thinking, Wilson leans over and presses his lips against the side of House's mouth sloppily.

The kiss is over as soon as it starts. A second later Wilson is at a more agreeable distance again, staring at House as though waiting for him to give a reaction.

And when House does nothing except for gaze at his friend with a slight knit to his eyebrows, Wilson takes that as a positive answer. Apparently no answer is also an answer, as he scoots himself closer on the couch and yanks House's head towards his own by the nape of his neck. Their teeth clash together sharply as Wilson nibbles ruthlessly on the older doctor's lower lip, moaning hungrily all the way.

He must have had one too many beers.

House leans back an inch, his eyes still open and attempting to comprehend what just happened. Wilson is still kissing him as though he was a tempting ice cream cone on a hot day, just waiting to be devoured. Ignoring the alarm splintering through his brain, House knows that the only constructive thing to do with his lips is to kiss back. House murmurs through Wilson's lips.

"Wilson," he mutters, "what the hell are you doing?"

The brown-haired man giggles drunkenly against House's mouth, his fingers sliding up to tangle themselves in House's uncultivated locks. "I think we both know the answer to that question, House." He says, and House is a bit ashamed to admit that Wilson is right. And he must have had too many beers himself as he grabs Wilson's waist and pulls him on top of his torso, all the while making sure his leg is hanging safely off the couch and away from harm.

He doesn't know what possesses him to kiss back, because House hates change and this is _definitely_ a change, but it's new and exciting and _dammit_ it feels good! Their lips feel like electricity against each other, which under normal circumstances House would find painful, but right now it's simply arousing. With every touch that Wilson inflicts upon him, he feels another flood of blood rush towards his groin. He instinctively bucks his hips upward, not caring exactly how embarrassing or illogical of an action it is.

Wilson moans at the movement, sitting up to straddle House, pinning his arms clumsily over his head. Somehow amidst their drunken whirlwind of confusion, Wilson still remembers to not sit on House's bad leg. He crushes their mouths together again and runs his hands down to unbutton his friend's shirt from the bottom up. Wilson struggles with the buttons, growling as he nips and sucks at House's neck. The older doctor groans, reaching to throw off Wilson's shirt as well. It comes off with ease and House is eager to get rid of it, as he tosses it onto the floor carelessly.

There is a heat coming from Wilson that's making House writhe in want. He bucks his hips again, more urgently this time, and Wilson gladly reciprocates, thrusting downward on his friend. He finally manages in removing House's shirt, throwing it away to meet with the other discarded top.

House bites at Wilson's shoulder bone, reveling in the feeling of bare chest against bare chest. He thrusts up, but whimpers wantonly when he feels nothing but air. Wilson moves away from him, fumbling to remove House's belt buckle and his own at the same time.

It takes only one more moment before both of them are left without clothes, rolling in each other's limbs. Having their naked skin touch is like being immersed in a cloud of lust and passion filled want, and House wants more. He doesn't know if it'll even be enough. He doesn't remember the last time he was this aroused, or the last time he had someone else being aroused with him at the same time.

Wilson's body is sweat-slick against his own. Both of them groan in unity as they meet each other's thrusts again and again. Wilson draws himself further up House's chest, sucking mercilessly on his erect nipples before he wraps both of their lips together back into another inebriated kiss, tongues tangling.

Wilson reaches down to pump House's erection in time to their thrusts. House moans, picking up their rhythm faster and harder.

It takes only two more seconds before they both finish with a cry. Wilson collapses on House's chest, sated, and lazily reaches out to wrap his arms around the older doctor's chest. His head seems to naturally nuzzle into House's neck, and with a deep sigh, Wilson hooks a leg over his friend's and his breathing turns into a steady sleep pattern.

--

House's eyes flutter open, right before they close abruptly at the bright ray of light shining into his face.

That's strange. Very strange. He usually keeps the blinds down in his bedroom.

The next thing he notices is that there a body wrapped up at his side in a peaceful cocoon. And after that, House realizes that it's Wilson.

He wriggles on the couch, pieces falling together. He's not in bed, he's on a couch in the living room, he's not alone, he's fallen asleep snuggled up to Wilson, he's not dressed, he's wearing nothing but his frown.

The normal House would roll out from underneath Wilson without one care about how rude it is, but House sees that his cane is out of his reach, and his leg is hurting up a storm.

_Probably from being straddled on_, the back of House's mind nags.

House never has embarrassing morning-afters. They're usually all very typical, but this time there was another man in his arms, and he's not even quite sure how far the two of them went. His mind refuses to believe that they simply undressed each other and slept, cuddled in their embraces, especially when House sees stains – definitely ones that weren't there before – tainting the couch's cushions.

Awkwardly, he pokes Wilson's shoulder. The other man mumbles incoherently into his neck, his breath hot and ticklish against House's shoulder and his words thick with sleep.

"_Wilson_," House hisses, poking him again. Wilson wriggles against him with a dissatisfied grimace, trying to burrow closer to his friend. House is horrified to feel the beginning of an arousal growing.

"Wilson, get off of me!" he says heatedly and attempts to shove Wilson away. However the other doctor is keen on remaining close, and once again nuzzles his way closer, apparently clinging to House, seeking out warmth.

"Mmfm…" Wilson murmurs groggily, still deep in slumber.

House's gaze moves to the clock up at the wall. Ideally they were both supposed to be at work thirty minutes ago, but House knows that that is definitely not going to happen today. Very carefully, not to awake Wilson and start a very awkward conversation, House slides out from his friend's resting form, crawling over the floor to snatch up his cane and his clothes. He hastily redresses himself and limps over to the kitchen to get vicodin.

House stares over at the couch and ponders his options. He could leave a curt note to Wilson with a lie explaining why he's naked and why House has fled, but then again House remembers Wilson being one beer short of passing out last night. If the diagnostician simply acted nonchalant and casual, Wilson may never suspect a thing or remember a thing. A very positive and bright outlook.

But before he can get to work at creating a note or smooth down his very obvious sex hair, Wilson stirs and sits up on the couch, eyes sleepy.

"House…?" he mumbles perplexedly, scanning the apartment. "I'm… I'm seeing stars."

Oh, the hangover. House can't help but smile as Wilson rubs at his temples and groans in pain. The older man deftly tosses his bottle of vicodin over to Wilson, who immediately swallows one when he catches the bottle.

"Ohhh…" Wilson murmurs laboriously, rubbing at his forehead. "Did I… did I drink your apartment last night?"

"The Misses threw you out of the house yesterday." House tells him.

"Right." Wilson reminisces with a grimace. He rubs drowsily at his eyes, and when the focus slides back into his pupils, he shifts on the leather couch.

Wilson freezes. He scrambles on the couch faster than a bull running out of its pen for the first time, groping for the woven throw on the edge of the couch and uses it to cover himself breathlessly.

"Why am I naked?" he demands, staring expectantly up at House.

House can't think of an excuse fast enough.

"Did – did we–?" Wilson begins incredulously.

"No, no, of course not," House denies swiftly. He realizes that _something_ is wrong, however, when Wilson's eyes are focused on his chest.

"House," the oncologist points out, "you're wearing my shirt."

House curses underneath his breath, staring at the shirt he had haphazardly thrown on in disgust. He steals a sheepish glance at Wilson.

"So… so we did…?"

The older man nods shortly, "Look, don't worry about it, I forgive you–"

"_You_ forgive _me_?!" Wilson repeated disbelievingly, "it's not like it was only me the whole time!"

"You were the one drunk!"

"Well, if you weren't drunk, why didn't you stop me?" Wilson demands.

They glare at each other in silence before Wilson sighs, putting his face in his hands shamefully, "I'm sorry," he finally mumbles, "I don't even remember it."

"I do," House admits.

He expects to hear a repulsed _I'm sorry for you_ or a _Ugh, I don't want to hear about it_ from his friend, but instead Wilson perks his head up curiously, asking something that sounds suspiciously like, "How was it?"

"What?" House asks, reluctant to believe what Wilson said.

"I could use a compliment," Wilson says, a little gloomily, "I'm not getting any at home."

"What makes you think you'd be getting a compliment?"

Wilson looks up at House inquisitively, his expression torn between looking offended and looking amused, "Well? Am I?"

House sighs, defeated, "I have no frame of reference, but…" he swallows hesitantly, "but you were great."

"What do you mean you have no frame of reference? You've been with women before!" Wilson points out.

The older man smiles amusedly, "Do you really want to call yourself a woman?"

"I – oh. Oh my god, you're right," Wilson breathes, "I _am_ a man."

"It's a little late for that realization."

"No!" Wilson says quickly, running a hand through his hair, "House–"

The phone rings abruptly. House reluctantly reaches over to the end table to grab the receiver.

"Greg House," he greets shortly, his gaze still locked with Wilson's.

"Where the hell are you and Wilson?" Cuddy's irritated voice demands, "I tried calling at his home, but he wouldn't pick up! He has a patient that's been waiting for an hour!"

House checks his wristwatch, "How early do you open that hospital?" he scoffs, frowning, "we'll be in a few minutes." He agrees reluctantly.

"What – what's going on?"

"Tsk, tsk, Wilson, you have a cancer patient waiting for you," House lectures playfully, throwing off Wilson's shirt and picking up his own.

"Ohh," Wilson mumbles regretfully, his head falling into his palms again, "I completely forgot about him."

"Well," House says quietly, "you seem to be forgetting a lot of things lately."

They're gazes lock again, but they both don't let it linger.

--

Wilson and House never speak of the drunken incident again. But it doesn't take long until Wilson and his wife divorce, which make House question if there were other nights when he had been thrown out of the house but was too afraid to ask House to sleep on his sofa.

It's not like either of them were sex-deprivation maniacs that needed some action badly enough to fool around with their best friend. It was a complete mistake.

At least House knows that Wilson thinks that.

House is not going to lie. He enjoyed it. Every second of it was like shooting up to the sky for a second before getting the thrill of plummeting down. And like a dieter craving for the loss of chocolate, House is lusting after the addictive feeling of being touched by Wilson.

And then he meets Bonnie.

He doesn't like the loving glow in Wilson's eyes when he stares at her figure, which in House's opinion is bony and deformed – _dammit_, Wilson could do better! – and he doesn't like how eager Wilson is to commit to women. And Bonnie may be the new Mrs. Wilson, and as much as House hates to admit it, he doesn't want Wilson marrying _anybody_.

--

House can't help but be happy when Wilson and Bonnie's marriage goes down the same path as his first. It's not like he wants a marriage let alone a relationship from the oncologist, but he much rather would prefer the night of passion they experienced a while ago that Wilson doesn't even remember. He wants to make sure Wilson remembers next time. God, House can't even image what it would be like if Wilson would be sober and they both wouldn't have the stink of alcohol on their breath.

He can smell the plummet in his and Bonnie's relationship. He's getting used to detecting Wilson's brooding, his gloominess, and the paths of destruction that all marriages eventually go down. After a while, you know the path. It's like learning how to realize when your not-so-housebroken dog is about to have an accident on the carpet. It's a skill House is learning.

--

"Well. This is a surprise."

"Why?" Wilson inquires, "I've slept on your couch before."

This is frighteningly familiar of Wilson's last marriage. The same slumped posture, the same negativity bouncing off of his chest, the same wretchedness written on Wilson's face. He has the same weathered suitcase except that it's even more battered than it was before. He has the same frown on his face, except for that now he's added age and unnoticeable wrinkles to his skin.

"Look," Wilson says with a sigh, "I won't drink this time."

"Shame," House says with a sardonic scowl, "just bought a six-pack."

The younger man takes this as an approval and heaves in his suitcase, propping it up against the edge of the couch. "Thanks, House."

House waves the remote lodged in his hand suggestively, "TV?" he offers, slumping back down onto the couch. He hoists his leg up onto the coffee table. Wilson eyes the couch reluctantly, as though it would the suck the two of them together and meld them as one by their lips, but he sits down after a moment's pause. House is just hoping he's not thinking_ I hope he had this thing steamed clean after that night_.

But House should have known.

It's a Wednesday night. Wednesday nights mean nothing good is on TV. And that means drinking, but drinking has already been strictly prohibited by Wilson. And that means House having to retire to bed at seven o'clock in the evening.

Awkwardly, House taps his fingers against his cane. Wilson flips through the channels, a sour expression on his face. House assumes that he's figured out that nothing merely watch-able is on TV on a Wednesday. His scowl becomes more pronounced the higher up the numbers on the TV go.

"Well," Wilson mumbles uneasily, having resorted to turning off the TV. He checks his wristwatch. "Uh… anything new happening with you?"

"Nope," House shrugs and looks at his shoes. "You?"

"Same as you." the oncologist responds dryly, examining his fingernails.

"How's the marriage?"

Wilson winces, "Well… I recognize the path it's going down."

House nods, "You… want to talk about it?" he offers uncomfortably. He doesn't really want to talk about it. He's just desperate enough to turn himself into the therapist for an evening just to have something to do.

"I guess," Wilson agrees with a heavy sigh, "I just don't know what to do to make this marriage… work. Even Hector's mad at me." He sighs, his eyes drooping in misery.

House raises an eyebrow, "Hector?" he asks quizzically.

"You know him," Wilson presses, "my dog?"

House drops the subject, "Why is Bonnie mad at you?"

"She…" Wilson's face scrunches up puzzlingly. He rubs at his neck. "She says I'm spending too much time away from her and that… that I'm always over here."

The older man cocks his head, amused, "She's mad that you're spending time over here?"

"Yes!!" Wilson replies exasperatedly, "It's like I can't have any friends!"

"So… are you going to stop seeing me?" House inquires quietly. He purposefully ignores Wilson's gaze.

"No," Wilson responds firmly. He pauses slightly, a contemplation running through his head as an afterthought.

"Well… good," House mumbles awkwardly, "Bros before hoes and all."

"You would do the same for me."

House tuts incredulously underneath his breath, staring fixedly at his knuckles.

"House." Wilson says softly, turning to face the older doctor.

The moment House twitches his head to the side to glance at Wilson, he feels the younger man climb into his lap and grab his face, pressing their lips together furiously. House's hands immediately work their way up to Wilson's hair, but not before he can slightly pull back.

"Wilson, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"You said it felt good," Wilson pleads, his eyes pooling with desperateness, "you said last time this happened it felt good, and that's what I need to feel like right now."

"Wilson–" House is vaguely wondering why the hell he's protesting Wilson. Perhaps it's because it's just more about-to-be-divorced pity sex, and House wants to know what it feels like when he's not just being used.

Wilson's head falls onto House's jugular, the younger doctor softly breathing in and out hot puffs of air onto his chin. It's oddly sensual. House's fingers slide to lightly caress Wilson's neck, and it's almost a subconscious act.

"Please." The brown-haired man begs, hands ghosting underneath House's shirt.

"Do you think I have no control?" House asks, trying to squirm away from Wilson's firm straddling. "Please, Wilson, you're only doing this because you and Bonnie are having issues that'll be gone tomorrow, but this'll be scarred in your brain forever."

Wilson looks up into House's eyes, a strange, fond glint in them. It's almost as if they're saying _What if I want it to be there forever?_ right before Wilson attacks his mouth in a lip lock.

House really _doesn't _have any self control, especially as the hand that's roaming underneath his shirt gets to work teasing a nipple. House gasps, working on removing his friend's shirt as fast as he can. Before he can comprehend anything coherent anymore, Wilson has already succeeded in ripping off House's shirt and buckle. They hit the floor with a heavy _thump_, but neither men have any interest in tidying up before they continue.

"This feels familiar," Wilson breathes into House's ear huskily, caressing the older doctor's hair fondly.

House can't comprehend what's going on right now. Just because he wants meaningless sex with Wilson doesn't mean he gets it. He can't always get what he wants; people have been telling him that for years, yet when the message is finally sinking it someone completely obliterates it and gives him what he yearns for? What kind of twisted logic was that?

The way Wilson is so passionately attacking House's body is almost antagonizing. House doesn't like a tease, and Wilson is being just that.

Somewhere in between his haze of pleasure, House tries to understand why exactly Wilson is ravishing his mouth. Perhaps House had wanted to recreate the drunken night before, but Wilson was too intoxicated to remember it, and therefore couldn't long for it to happen again. How could he miss something he never had?

Wilson isn't drunk, he isn't stoned, and he certainly isn't insane. House doesn't know Wilson as the man who willingly stumbles into affairs and snowballs of lies because of one evening with a depressing fight. And he certainly wouldn't be seeking affairs with men; crawling into the arms of Greg House was not predictable.

"Come on, you want it as much as I do." Wilson husks, his fingers tingling at House's loose waistband. He toys with it in his palms, wriggling it down just a bit.

"Wilson." House mutters grimly, grabbing Wilson's shoulders. He attempts fruitlessly to push the younger man off and reason with him, perhaps try to put the whole situation into a bigger outlook, maybe even toss Wilson's wedding ring onto his forehead as a reminder. Being caught up in the moment is never good. Never. Wilson pulls back for just a moment, propping his chest up by his elbows and staring longingly into House's eyes. The diagnostician can practically smell the lust pouring out of Wilson's pupils.

"You didn't stop me last time," Wilson points out and cocks his head, "It'll make both of feel better, it's not a big deal, House. Please."

"Wilson, Sympathy Sex is basically the exact same thing as Mistake Sex. You have a _wife_."

House is starting to get very frustrated. Wilson's expression looks so incredibly blank and his chest is still heaving, which makes House begin to wonder if he's even listening to his words. For once in his life, House wants to do the right thing, the reasonable thing, and Wilson is stopping him. Something is very, very _wrong_.

"Are you even _listening_ to me?!" House snaps.

Wilson shakes his head before he presses his lips to House's in another long and languid kiss. "Can we just forget about all of the things you just mentioned for an hour? C'mon, we'll leave that behind and take a trip to Cloud Nine."

"Cloud Nine is not my friend, Wilson," House says firmly, but Wilson's face is one of aggressive determination. House fears that he won't give up until he has what he wants, and quite frankly, with the massaging that Wilson is rubbing at House's hip, he's not all that reluctant to give it to him.

A load groan escapes House's mouth as Wilson gropes his erection through his underwear. House vaguely wishes that he could swallow his moan back and keep it in his throat, because the look that Wilson's face receives is pure satisfaction and victory. House never likes losing.

And he thinks he just did.

A little wistfully, House watches as his boxers fall onto the floor, Wilson's following soon after. The fact that this is actually happening is what House is still trying to process in his mind that usually has gears churning at one hundred miles an hour twenty-four-seven. But the gears seem to have taken a short coffee break, as House can't make out anything anymore as Wilson bites roughly on House's neck, his fingers sliding teasingly up and down the diagnostician's thighs.

House pants, desperately attempting to scratch at Wilson's back to press them together closer. "I – god – fuck you, you evil bastard." He mumbles, way past coherency. That too seems to have gone off on a coffee break.

However House isn't the only one who's lost their common sense. Wilson's muttering jumbles of words in a litany of lust, dragging his tongue up the older man's chest and rolling his hips. House can't make out any of the murmured phrases tumbling out of his friend's lips except for a few various words. But his eyes widen dramatically as he hears:

"Better than Bonnie, oh, _House_…"

_Better than Bonnie_. He's better than Bonnie. He's barely even responding to the oncologist's needy touch except for the occasional hungry moan that escapes his lips and the shuddering underneath Wilson's bucks his hips. House grabs Wilson's hair and pulls him down into a blistering kiss, running his tongue along the younger man's lips, begging for entrance. It encourages Wilson to do even more as he slips his hand down House's hips and pumps it up his friend's erection. House moans, arching into the touch.

"Still want me to stop?" Wilson's hot breath ghosts over House's earlobe, who shudders from the motion uncontrollably. He grips Wilson's hips hard enough to bruise.

"I don't think either answer would g-get you to stop, now would i-it?"

Wilson shakes his head, never stopping the roll of his hips.

"You – you have just _got_ to b-be stoned." The older man mumbles with the last ounce of coherency he has. He remembers his past self, or at least himself ten minutes ago, calm and collected, and not to mention fully-clothed. He likes to think of himself as someone who has the self-control of a mountain, but his mountain has crumbled.

"No, just desperate, House." Wilson mumbles against his mouth.

It is stupid. Bonnie has a million and now plus one reasons to hate House, not only because he takes up all of Wilson's time. Not only because he's all Wilson talks about. Not because Wilson is always over at his place. It's because when Wilson has a problem, he doesn't talk it over with his wife, he goes to have sex with House.

But it's cases like these that he realizes that being selfish will finally pay off.

Gripping Wilson's shoulders, he presses short, hot kisses onto his collarbone. The oncologist leans into them, but not before he leads House's chin up to connect their lips. House pants as they break apart, gripping frantically at the leather of the couch as Wilson slides down his stomach. He grips Wilson's hair, urging him on, but frowns slightly as he feels a noticeable pause of hesitance in the younger man's movements. He stares down his chest breathlessly, attempting to brush his fingers through Wilson's hair in what he hoped was a soothing motion.

"Can, can I?" Wilson asks tentatively. House nods.

"Just do it, Wilson." He snaps, and without even one more ounce of trepidation Wilson wraps his mouth around House's erection. Already quivering with his arousal, House moans and throws his head back onto the cushions with emphasized bucks of his hips.

"I," House rasps, "_more_, Wilson, _faster!_"

Wilson takes the liberty to suck harder, gently pushing down on his friend's hips to control his writhing. House's leg is throbbing, but he doesn't care. His eyes practically roll back into his head as Wilson swallows his erection whole and with one finally lick on the underside, House groans. An orgasm ripples through his body with a rattled breath as he empties himself in Wilson's mouth.

Sated, both men sigh breathlessly. Wilson slivers up House's body, pressing one more sticky kiss to his shoulder. House claws the oncologist closer to his body, not for the heat but for the pure feeling of Wilson's skin touching him and the heaving of his chest against his.

"Your heartbeat," House murmurs sleepily, touching at Wilson's chest with two lazy fingers, "it's fast."

"I could thank you for that."

House grabs Wilson's arms, shuffling closer on the couch to press his nose in his neck. The oncologist's neck is reeking of the smell of sweat, but it calms House down nonetheless. With Wilson draped right over House, he's nestled comfortably in between the cocoon of his legs and his chest. House runs a finger languidly down the line of his spine. It only takes two more minutes until Wilson is asleep, but House is still restlessly awake.

He presses his lips to Wilson's ear tenderly, murmuring, "Tell Bonnie I'm sorry."

--

The thing about Cloud Nine is that it's up in the sky, and what goes up must come down.

Painfully.

This time, House wakes up to see Wilson slipping into his trousers and shoving mugs underneath the coffee machine spout.

"Wilson?" he husks groggily, rubbing a hand over his forehead. Wilson wanders sheepishly over to the couch, one hand over his eyes and the other one blindly holding out a pair of pants to the diagnostician.

"Would you open your damn eyes?" House barks, snatching up the pants. Wilson sighs, eyes still shielded from his clamped together fingers. "God, it's like you've never seen me naked before."

House sighs as he looks up and sees Wilson still stubbornly shutting his eyes closed. House irritably struggles into his pants and wrenches the oncologist's hand away from his face.

"For god's sake, this isn't a seventh grade locker room. It's not like I'm wearing embarrassing tighty whities," House snaps. Wilson looks fixedly at the wall.

"Do you have to make everything into a joke, House?" Wilson asks quietly, reaching over to the coffee table to grab his shirt.

House sighs heavily once again, "Do you… do you regret what happened last night?"

Wilson shakes his head in one fast movement. "This time I actually remember it. Maybe it'll… help me help my marriage."

"That's ridiculous," House barks, limping off the couch to stare down Wilson's nose, "You don't have affairs with your friends to solve your marriages. You have affairs because marriages just aren't enough. What you and I did last night was not done to save your relationship with your wife. The only thing it changed was _our_ relationship."

"House, don't turn this into something it wasn't–"

"I'm doing the exact opposite. I'm not romanticizing what we've done. It's times like these when you see weak a person really is." House says sharply, hobbling over to the kitchen.

Wilson grits his teeth together in a slightly irritated gesture. Hands gravitating to rest grimly on his hips, he pauses before starting his retort, "It was good."

"Pardon?"

"I told you," Wilson mutters, "I couldn't remember it last time. But this time I could, and… and it was good."

"Good?" House echoes, "I remember you saying that I was _better than Bonnie_." He mumbles the last part into his coffee cup rim.

Wilson nods, "You were," he takes a calm step towards his friend, "and that's why it helped me, House. You may think this just debilitated my marriage, but… it gives me back the strength I need."

The looks he's sending House are just a tad suggestive. House furrows his eyebrows together slightly as Wilson takes another timid step toward the older man. He's all for helping Wilson if this is what he needs for help, but this is supposed to be a once-every-marriage kind of deal. If they have sex every single time that Wilson is feeling lugubrious then they might as well live in the same bed.

House is positive that Wilson is about to lean in to topple both of them into another heated kiss that will result in them ripping off their garments for the second time in the last few hours, but instead Wilson takes a deep breath and kisses his cheek softly.

"Thanks." He mumbles, and grabs his jacket. House stares after him incredulously.

"_Thanks?_" he repeats, "this isn't like I got you a coupon from a gas station. I didn't buy you lunch or actually remember your birthday. I don't want a thanks."

"What do you want?"

House wavers. He has a lot of things on his tongue, but he also has sense somewhere in his mouth as well. He swallows back his remarks, "I guess thanks is better than a chick flick kiss on the cheek." He murmurs in Wilson's direction before he drains his cup with a dry smack of the lips.

--

Three times is never a charm.

House knows what caused Wilson's ultimate failure in his second marriage. He knows that the same thing caused the ending to his first. It was almost as through a diabolic holocaust was running through all of the oncologist's wives.

House would normally pride himself on that.

But then the third wife came along. House was sure that the only reason there even _was_ a third wife was because Wilson was trying desperately to find a relationship that he wouldn't screw up, one that he didn't need House to lean on for.

House knows that this marriage isn't going to last either. Wilson should've known as well, but House realizes that he's a slow learner. He's practically retrogressing. He has thirty bucks on a bet with himself that this marriage will be even more succinct than the previous ones. But it wasn't as though all of these divorces were fortuitous.

Who will be to blame?

One very heinous Greg House.

--

It isn't a dark and stormy night. The dark and stormy night was four days ago. But House is never one of those to get warped into clichés. Halloween is only a few hours away, and House is settled onto his couch, flipping through the channels but not actually watching. He moans at the thought of kids mauling his door in a day's time, with their obnoxiously helium-like voices squeaking _trick or treat!_ all night long.

He really needs a distraction.

A familiar, _too familiar_, knock is on the door. House knows who it is. He's not in the mood for mollifying, but he's hoping that this isn't why Wilson's really here.

He limps slowly to the door and opens it for Wilson. He sighs and smiles one of those grins that's actually hiding any true happiness. But there is no battered suitcase, no exhausted sigh. Wilson's hair isn't a sad tuft of uncultivated bushiness. He's not troubled. Not very.

"Is this about–"

"My marriage?" Wilson finishes for him with a grave nod, "Of course."

"She kick you out?"

"No…" the younger man mumbles, shuffling a foot back and forth on the rumpled welcome mat, "I kicked myself out."

They're eyes meet for just a moment. House isn't sure if Wilson and his wife even had a fight. He can imagine Wilson, being the horrible bluffer he is, coming up with a lame excuse such as _I'm sleeping over at my dentist's_ just to see House. House wrinkles up his nose.

"We got into a fight." Wilson answers for him.

"You have no suitcase." House feebly points a finger at the noticeable lack of luggage at Wilson's side.

"I didn't think I needed any."

They're gazes lock again, and this time before House can even invite Wilson in or protest about what he's suggesting, the oncologist has smothered his objections with a furious kiss, hands snaking around his neck. House vaguely feels one of Wilson's legs hitching up his good thigh to wrap around his waist, the other climbing up his knee. Securely fastening his hands on the small of Wilson's back – never breaking their breathless lip lock – House dumps both of them on the couch. It's become almost routine, which as frightening as it is, House likes it.

"Forgotten what it feels like again?" House asks with a slight smile.

"Think so." Wilson mumbles, and his teeth graze over House's tongue before he nibbles ruthlessly on his lower lip. House moans. It's a rough, intense kiss that only makes their arousals roar in anticipation, their arms encircling each other and their fingers digressing into each others hair like worms through dirt.

Wilson reaches through their writhing bodies to grasp House' hand between his own and strokes his thumb lightly. "I… I'm scared, House."

"It's okay," the older man mumbles, "It's okay." He repeats. The cane still firmly in House's grip clatters dismissively to the floor as he tosses it over the couch. The hasty and fervent touches that are flickering their way from House's fingertips to the skin on Wilson's chest are almost electrifying. Both men's hands wander inconspicuously down to each other's pants, House the only one being bold enough to yank at his belt while Wilson plays idly with a button.

Wilson presses a short, hot kiss to House's collarbone, rubbing his body slowly against the older man's. He hurries to rip off the buttons on his shirt, but House swats his hand away sharply.

"Don't," he snaps huskily, "It's my turn." He undresses Wilson's shirt himself, nipping softly at the exposed flesh with a famished man's hunger. Wilson moans, tugging at the hem of the diagnostician's shirt before pulling it off his chest.

No one is drunk. No one is insane. No one is stoned. No one is thinking either, however.

It's a bad idea. Wilson has now cheated on each one of his wives once, and House isn't sure if he's even regretful. House doesn't feel particularly guilty himself, but then again, he's the one always being hit on. Wilson has always reprimanded House for not feeling any emotion, for always being miserable, for being such an ass to the oncologist's life. But this is proving to Wilson that House is more than just an impassive rock that can only be a cheerless and moping jerk.

Their bodies know each other by now. Arms that recognize each other are circling around sweaty shoulders. Their movements are pure routine, skin rubbing against skin in a memorized rhythm. Almost like a practiced dance routine, House instinctively moves to grab Wilson by the hips while biting gently at his chin and the hot skin around it.

"Why," he grumbles gruffly, "are you still wearing clothes?" With a slightly choleric grunt, House jerks the remainder of Wilson's clothing off of his body while Wilson does the same on the older man's.

"You're wearing black underwear," House observes breathlessly, "people only wear black underwear if they think they're about to get lucky. Do you think I'm _that_ easy?"

Wilson smiles, "I think you are." He mumbles, brushing his hand over House's erection. House bucks his hips into it before carefully fighting his way on top of Wilson and trapping his arms on the cushions.

"How far do you want this to go?" House pants, attempting to calm his labored breathing enough to grit out a comprehensible sentence.

"More," Wilson mutters, "I want more, House."

House contemplates the command, "All right," he finally says through a thrust of his hips, "then this might hurt."

"What?"

Before Wilson could prepare himself for what was to come, House cakes his finger in saliva and pierces into his friend's entrance. Wilson bites down on his lip hard enough to bleed at the sudden intrusion before he gradually melts into House's ministrations. He grips at House's untidy locks with white knuckles as rocks his hips into the motion House's fingers are moving into as well.

"You… you could have warned m-me." Wilson mutters.

"You would have clenched," House shakes his head, "ready?"

Wilson licks a path up the older man's chest as an answer. House removes his fingers and replaces them with his weeping erection.

It hurts, even more than before, but it's more pleasure faster. Pleasure itself is heat, but pain and pleasure are igniting sparks inside of Wilson. The younger man cries out in groans, gripping House's shoulder with his fingernails. Thrust after thrust he moans as the pain rapidly turns into nothing but satisfaction. With every single thrust that House is delivering Wilson feels another part of his body spasming without control as he writhes further into House's body.

Three tantalizingly slow seconds later, Wilson feels House collapsed on his chest, smiling softly against his chin. Wilson's hand gravitates towards his hair, raking his fingers through the curls. Exhaustions claims them both as they fall into slumber within their own sweaty embraces.

By morning, Wilson is gone.

--

"I have the right to walk away from you, House."

House frowns, his hand still gripping on the door as though he was holding on to the edge of a cliff. There's only one thing going through his mind, and it's that he's about to lose the one thing that ever put up with him for years at a time. Grimly, he sticks his cane into Wilson's apartment and slithers his way in with a grimace.

"Okay. I say that I'm allowed to walk away from you and you walk toward me." Wilson frowns.

House nods, "That's how it's going to be, Wilson," he says firmly, "you can try and walk away. I'll just follow you." he pokes his cane against Wilson's chest. Wilson recoils away from it.

"Would you just let me do what I need to do, House?" Wilson mutters gruffly, pushing away the cane. "I told you before, I am done with your childish games!

The older man rolls his eyes, "I'm sorry that your girlfriend's dead, I'm sorry that it was my fault, I'm sorry that you're leaving New Jersey, but I am _not_ sorry that you stumbled onto my couch every single time you were upset with your wives and I _let you_! _You_ should be sorry for that."

Wilson blinks. And then he huffs incredulously. "It's a little late to be rejecting me, House."

House throws his cane away from his body furiously, stomping as swiftly and gracefully as he can toward the oncologist.

"This isn't a rejection," he barks, "this is my getting payback."

It's one of those schemes that Wilson knows isn't a long lecture, but rather an unexpected action. He takes an unconscious step back but House is faster, and before he can object, House has slammed their lips together fiercely.

Wilson promptly pushes him off, "Am I speaking Russian?! I told you to _back off_, that does not mean please violate my personal space!"

"When you came over to my apartment I said _want some beer?_ but you heard _want to get laid?_ Don't be hypocritical."

"That was years ago, House, stop clinging onto things that meant nothing!"

"Well," House mumbles, "this is the part where you blame yourself because it meant something to _me_."

There is a noticeable lack of angry arguments, yelling, talking, and even breathing.

"What?"

House smiles sardonically at Wilson, "Right. Forgot. Let's go have sex with House because House won't mind. House won't feel anything. House won't hurt." He runs a hand through his hair.

Wilson gapes, "I… uh," he stares in disbelief at the older doctor, "I'm… I'm sorry, House. I didn't think… I didn't think you would be the one getting hurt."

"I don't want an apology," the older man snaps, "I said I was here for payback. You came to me three times," House flicks three fingers in Wilson's face, "Count 'em, three, because you were depressed. And now it's my turn."

His eyes are zipping down to Wilson's frozen lips once again. Wilson licks at them subconsciously.

"House–"

"Except that I'm lying," House mutters, "Sort of, at least. I don't want to sleep with you."

"Then… then what do you want?"

"Many things, actually," House hobbles over to retrieve his cane, holding up his index finger as a starter, "One. I'd like you to stay," another finger props itself up, "two, I'd like you to be my friend again," and the thumb, "three, I don't want you to be my friend anymore."

"Do you like confusing me with these strange riddles where you contradict your words?"

"Perhaps," House nods, his fingers curling back into a fist, "but the point is that I want you to be more than my friend. But before that can happen, I need you to be my friend again."

"So… this whole time. During this whole… _affair_… you've actually been feeling something for me?" Wilson recollects.

A hesitant hand worms its way to hold Wilson's wrist. Wilson jumps at the sudden movement. "Are you… are you holding me hand?"

"Actually, I'm holding your carpals," House analyzes as he brushes his thumb over Wilson's palm, "juvenile, I know, but you like that stuff."

"I… I do." Wilson nods with a slight furrow of the eyebrows, "but you don't."

"Are you just saying this to hear me say that I like you again?" House says with a grimace, "Look, I'm not here to force you to stay. I'm not even convincing you to stay. But let me say that I'm someone," he tilts his head slightly, "who gets what they want. Or who they want, in this case. And I won't let you go without a fight. So either you stay here in this apartment with me, or you leave New Jersey and I follow you all the way to wherever you're going."

Wilson stares at the floor, knowing that House's gaze is drawing him out like a fly to a mirror. He lets a small smile grow on his face.

"If you… still want that payback. I – there's a couch less than three feet away."

Their eyes meet, both of their stares intense and thick with unspoken_ please want this too_s and _is this really happening_s.

Once again, the sound of a cane clattering on the floor fills the air. House lays a hand on Wilson's neck before he grins at him knowingly and presses their mouths together.

It's an emotional refuge.

For both of them.

_AN_: For those of you who haven't read the amazing quotes at the top of the story, do it now. For those of you who already have read them, read them again, because now that you've finished the story, they'll make much more in sense in how they're related.

In the meantime, let's just say that this story is to enlighten those who have seen the latest episodes of season five of House and feel like crying because of the immense SADNESS in the House/Wilson relationship. D: For those of you who want to share your opinion and see mine on the House episodes, see me at my LJ at the name _JuliaKerns5_. :D


End file.
